Hesitant morning
leaned and stretched
into the shape of an afternoon
the color of unwashed glass,
and found me, dreaming,
pen in hand.
Two bright birdcalls
streamed from the woods
beyond a rumpled counterpane
of grass and snow spread out
below the window
where I lingered.
As bircalls will,
they drew a glance,
green-eyed, from the sill,
where the ginger cat
had arranged himself
like an eclair
on a bistro plate
We both glanced toward
the denuded trees, reacting
to the same pure sound—
To me, spring whispered:
Just a while.
The cat licked his chops,
and appeared to smile.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
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